Letters from an Angel
by CityCat
Summary: Sometimes, you just have to have faith. When 10-year old Quasimodo sends up a prayer for proof of God's love and companionship, little does he expect a direct answer from Heaven above. Through the golden-inked letters of a mysterious angel, Quasimodo begins to observe the small, unexamined miracles in his life, verifying that those who walk with God are never truly alone.
1. The First Letter

**Letters from an Angel**

After six straight hours of spring rainfall, the afternoon streets of Paris, France were damp and desolate. The heavy clouds above reigned with a grey bleakness upon the famous Notre Dame Cathedral, only letting up to collect enough moisture to rain another day. From atop the grand cathedral, a young boy by the name of Quasimodo gazed down at the quaint city below him. The streets might have been bare, but the houses were full and lit with bright beams of candlelight reflecting from every open window. Inside the homes, families of all sizes sat next to each other, either bundled up near a crackling fireplace or sharing a delicious dinner of French onion soup with roast beef. Or perhaps the family was playing a game with cards, or entertaining guests with music and dancing.

Then, with tired eyes, Quasimodo turned around. Unlike the cheery houses outside, the only place he could call home was the bell tower of Notre Dame. Its stone walls were tall and mighty; its two main structures that held the bells were dark and damp, its only resident a ten-year old boy with hyperkyphosis and a handful of other physical abnormalities. No fireplaces, no proper shelter from rainfall, and no family love. It was big enough, and certainly had a world-class view, but the bell tower just wasn't made to be a home.

Needless to say, Quasimodo felt more than just a twinge of jealousy of the other Parisian children. He didn't understand why he couldn't go play or talk to strangers or leave the cathedral—even if it was only to fetch water from the Seine. Frowning miserably, he waddled on his uneven legs to his makeshift bed, a modest bundle of blankets, spare cloth, and a single pillow. He gingerly fluffs up what he can of that small marshmallow of a pillow and rests his red head, clinging to it as his only means of comfort and warmth. At least, for the moment.

_Knock, knock, knock. _Quasimodo jerked his head up as he deduced there was someone at the tower door. Of course, the knocking was only a polite gesture since only two people regularly visited him, but only one ever bothered to make his presence known before entering. "Quasimodo?" the gentle voice of the Archdeacon asked. "Where are you, my child?" The boy got up from his bed and ran to the source of the voice, panting softly when he came into view.

"H-Here I am, Father."

"There you are, indeed," he chuckled. "I come bearing gifts." The older man smiled kindly and handed him a covered basket containing his lunch. Quasimodo took the basket into his own two hands and curiously looked behind the tower door, only to find that the Archdeacon came alone. "I'm sorry, Quasimodo, but your guardian will not be visiting you until sunrise tomorrow. His work is keeping him, I'm afraid." The boy's face dropped as the realization hit him that he was to spend the evening and the night by himself.

"Thank you," he mumbled, lowering his eyes. The Archdeacon apologetically touched the boy on the head before turning around to take his leave. "Wait," Quasimodo said, picking his head up. The older man looked over his shoulder, slowly turning back around.

"What is it, Quasimodo?" The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"C-Could you stay, j-just a bit longer? M-Maybe tell me a-a Bible story?" The Archdeacon gave him a remorseful look; despite the boy's pleading eyes, he had work of his own to be done.

"I'm sorry, Quasimodo. Not tonight. I, along with other members of the church, am dividing up available food, blankets, and dry clothing for the travelers that found themselves soaked by the storm and a good distance from home. You understand, don't you, my son? They are children of God too."

"I understand," the poor boy nodded. "S-Sorry for asking." The Archdeacon smiled gently.

"There is no shame in asking, my child. Do you remember what I told you the last time you felt alone?" Quasimodo looked up as far as his spinal cord would allow and recited what he recalled.

"Those who walk with God are never alone."

"Exactly. I must go now, but why not send up a prayer? As the good book says, 'Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened to you.' That is Matthew 7:7." The older man patted Quasimodo's head before disappearing into the corridor down the tower steps. With a lamenting sigh, Quasimodo took his basket back to his bedroom area and sat in his blankets. He folded his hands and bowed his head before giving God his prayer of thanks for the meal.

"I hope you're listening," he whispered afterwards. "Father says you are, but I don't know for sure." He frowned slightly, wishing he had someone he could talk to that he could see. "Maybe send me an angel," he thought aloud. "A good guardian angel, so I won't be by myself so much." He squeezed his eyes tighter as he sent forth his wish. "Please, God. Let me know you're always with me. Amen."

Satisfied for the moment, he took his time eating his food. In his basket, he found a ripe apple, a baguette with a pat of yellow butter, a fresh hunk of white cheese, and a couple slices of smoked roast beef, preserved with choice spices. He smiled at the sight of the meat, for good meat such as this was a delicacy. His guardian, Judge Claude Frollo, saw to it that his absence for the evening was compensated for.

Once he had his fill, he stifled a yawn and forced himself back up again to work. Being the bell ringer of Notre Dame was no easy occupation. Quasimodo would rise every day at the crack of dawn and consult his sundial plank. From a young age of seven, he figured out how to time his bell-ringing to the consistency of the sun. On his plank of wood that lay horizontal to the sky, little scratch lines were made to where the shadow of the stick that was placed vertically in the middle center rose and fell. Every time the stick's shadow intercepted a scratch line, the bells would be due to ring. After a few years of the same routine, he became accustomed to the ticking of time and got a natural feel for the scheduled rings, so that even on the cloudy, overcast days where the sun hardly shined, he wouldn't miss a ring by a minute. After the last ringing session of the night, he would be granted the liberty to sleep until morning. His work now complete, the young boy fell on his side into his bed, too exhausted to care about comfort.

Quasimodo awoke the following morning to the bright chirping of his fluttering friends, the bluebirds of the bell tower. The skies were cleared up and the sun made an appearance, slowing making its way over the valley in the east. "G'morning," he mumbled to the birds, sitting up to rub the sleepiness out of his eyes. He stretched by turning himself side to side and reaching forward toward his ankles, for bending backwards was painful. As he turned to face his pillow, he saw a small sheaf of paper peek from under it. He reached for it and took the paper into his hands, his eyes opening wide with interest at what was on the other side. Bright letters written in gold ink—if that was possible—were inscribed on the paper in the form of a brief message:

_Dear Quasimodo, _

_Your prayers have been heard and answered by the Lord on high. Know that He loves you, and that He is always watching. _

_Signed, Celeste—Your Guardian Angel_

He was just starting on the basics of learning phonetics, yet somehow, he could understand every word he saw. He stared at the two-sentence message for what seemed like an hour, mulling over the miraculous greatness of its contents. "He loves me," he murmured to no one in particular. "Someone _is_ watching me." He felt his jaw fall slack in the moment. He had heard of genuine religious experiences before, but never imagined having one of his own. "_My _guardian angel."


	2. Parapets of Stone

Chapter 2: Parapets of Stone

One by one, the homes of Paris responded to the bells. Quasimodo observed through his slanted vision the white, but sun-kissed arms of the young ladies stretching from their wake. And they were all beautiful. He heard the clip-clopping of the patrol guards mounted on their steeds as they peered around every street and alleyway for signs of trouble. They were, like himself, watchmen of the city—_his _city. The horses were adorned with the banners of the king and the best fine leather tack money could buy. They were clean and well-fed, which is the mark of a strong cavalry. Quasimodo idly wondered if the horses knew a sense of pride in their work as he did.

Turning to the lofty room in the bell tower, he opened his wooden chest of toys. His guardian sympathized with his boy's boredom years ago and expressed his atonement through a modest toy box. Paintable wooden figures, some paint bottles, a couple brushes, an ink bottle and feather pen to practice writing, a spinning top, and a set of ebony dominos filled the chest. He stared at the little dotted rectangle blocks for a moment before setting them up end to end, leaving a small space in between. As he worked meticulously on his domino line, he forcibly thought of the lecture Frollo gave him the day he gifted him with the blocks. _The world is full of sin, Quasimodo. Full of the Devil's corruption. Sin spreads like the plague—infesting the mind and soul of one… _At this part, Frollo touched the lead domino with a long finger and watched the line tumble. _…Until it grows to spread its virus to another person, another neighborhood, another city, and even another country. You know the cure, Quasimodo._

"_M-Medicine?" the young boy guessed._

"_No. Try again." At Quasimodo's extended silence, Frollo prompted him with a hint. "What is 'F'?"_

"_Forgiveness!" came the automatic answer. After a moment's thought, Quasimodo reached his answer. "Forgiveness from God is the cure…r-right, Master?" Frollo responded with a single nod and collected the dominos to put in the chest. _

"_That is correct, Quasimodo. Ask, and you shall be forgiven. Be dutiful with your prayers, and you will be under His protection from the Devil's sin." _

Frollo would be arriving any time now. He always came late in the morning with brunch. Quasimodo debated on whether he should show Frollo the golden letter or not. If he showed him, he would ask where the letter came from and might think that it was someone's idea of a joke. If not, he'd be keeping secrets, which would greatly displease his guardian. The very thought of exacerbating their relationship scared him, for he knew fully well what Frollo was capable of. He alone had the power to torture, imprison, and sentence death to anyone who turned against the church or the state. As he thought about his guardian's ruthless jurisdiction, his trembling hand spasmodically pushed down the first domino in line. He watched helplessly as the energy flow sped down the column until the last domino fell overboard, disappearing to the world down below.

"Mrrooow!" voiced a purring mew from somewhere in the tower. Quasimodo

hastily collected his dominos and put them away, suddenly feeling like he was being watched. The sound came again, louder than the first, as if to call for attention. With a curious fascination, the young boy traced the sound to the third storey of bells. There, sitting on a narrow ledge, was a bright orange tabby cat. It met his eyes, swishing its tail with anticipation as if it had been waiting for him for quite some time. A rolling purr emitted from its throat before it stood up, arched its back to stretch, and leapt away to the next rafter.

Where the cat had sat, a white letter remained. Quasimodo adroitly climbed his way to the letter and caught a corner with two fingers. He could already make out the shimmering glint of the golden ink. He eagerly opened it up, staring intently at the fine cursive letters:

_Dear Quasimodo, _

_Your loyalty is commendable and shall be rewarded. Fear not the truth, but embrace it always. However, I advise you to keep my messages to yourself. They are meant for your eyes only as there are things even clergymen are not ready to understand._

_Signed, Celeste—Your Protector and Friend_

In his hands, he had his answer. He would not speak of the letters or show them to anyone. Climbing back down to the ground-most floor, he took the letter to where he placed the first one. But when he lifted his pillow among the nest of blankets, the first letter was gone. Gone as if it never existed. He could only assume that Celeste took the letters back after they had been opened for his protection. Placing the second letter under his pillow, he returned to his toy chest when he heard the sharp footsteps of his guardian make their way up the staircase to his tower. He raced to the door and waited, smiling up at Claude Frollo in greeting as he passed through the doorway.

"Good morning, Quasimodo," Frollo spoke plainly, his expression stern, yet not overbearing.

"G'morning…Master," the boy answered, hungrily eyeing the basket on Frollo's robed arm. He took a few careful steps back as Frollo strode further in the tower towards the round table where they usually dined.

"How are you feeling today?" the older man inquired out of a sense of duty, gesturing for his ward to sit down.

"I am well, thank you," Quasimodo responded flawlessly, having rehearsed the answer to that particular question. He knew that small-talk about his health was only a formality, not an invitation to discuss feelings. Frollo nodded in acknowledgement and glided to the wooden cupboard for plates and glasses.

"I want you to learn how to do this yourself," the tall, cloaked man said. "I expect nothing but civilized manners from you, as misshapen as you are."

"Y-Yes, Master," Quasimodo mumbled meekly, lowering his eyes to his folded hands in his lap. He would remember to fetch the dishes next time as his guardian never liked to repeat himself. Frollo swiftly set the table and placed food on the plates—bread, cheese, and grapes for Quasimodo, and an apple, ham, and Danish pastry for himself. He poured red wine for himself and apple cider for the boy, who recited his prayer of thanks before permitting himself to eat.

"Have you been making good use of your time, Quasimodo?"

"Yes," the boy nodded. "I was thinking about what you said…a-about sin and dominos." Frollo's face softened slightly in approval.

"You have a good memory." Then his countenance hardened once more. "I believe I also mentioned that you must keep your toys to yourself if you wish to keep them." His hand slipped into his robes, pulling out the fallen domino. Quasimodo's eyes widened with guilt; he had hoped no one would notice. He swallowed down the last of his food, his eyes sending up his sincere apologies. His guardian, however, wasn't satisfied. "Bring me your dominos, Quasimodo." A direct order.

Slowly rising to his feet, the boy turned to his toy box, frowning with self-disappointment. He sank to his knees and collected the little blocks in his tunic before walking them to his waiting master. Frollo confiscated them and inserted them into a pocket in his robes, his eyes cold with disappointment. "I will return these to you once you've proved to be more responsible." He picked up his basket and started toward the tower steps. "Good day, Quasimodo." The boy hung his head, watching out of the corner of his eye as the regal red ribbon of his guardian's tri-tipped hat floated down the spiral stairs.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice too light to be heard. Glancing at the dishes left on the table, he took the two plates in his hands and reached for the cabinet-like ledge to put them away. He returned to the goblets and placed them on the shelf as well, hoping that the gesture would please his guardian upon his return. He always knew that he didn't deserve Frollo's love, nor would he ever receive it, but he wanted more than anything to make Frollo feel proud of him, instead of just feeling stuck with him.

"Mrrroooow!" Quasimodo turned around to see the orange tabby cat walking near his feet. He froze as the cat looked him over and came closer, rubbing its soft head on his legs just above his ankles. He smiled warmly at the affectionate gesture, reaching down to pet the furry head. The cat leapt away before he could touch it, stopping a little ways to turn its head and swish its tail. Quasimodo cautiously approached the cat so as not to scare it off, following it to the edge of the stone railing.

"Come away, kitty," he said softly, gesturing with his hands for the cat to step down where it was safe. The cat stood up a little straighter and shook its head, proudly walking on the narrow banister like a tightrope. "Oh, please be careful!" He wanted to follow the cat, but the risk of losing his balance and falling to his death was too great. The cat turned its head to look at him once more before leaping from stone to stone, climbing higher up the outside of the tower. Upon a closer look, Quasimodo saw that the stones the cat chose were jutted out unevenly, almost on purpose like a rock wall with plenty of space to grab onto or hold himself up. He leaned out just far enough to see the cat make it to the top spire of the cathedral, standing proudly as if at the peak of a great mountain.

_I wish I were as fearless as you, _he mentally whispered to the cat. He could almost see himself doing the same thing—climbing higher and higher with agile skill with the reward of an even more magnificent view of the city at the top. _One day…_


End file.
